The Ice Garden

by Guy Jones

  ‘Tell me about it!’

  ‘Right. But the thing is, they thought I was getting worse and worse. And then all of a sudden, a few hours ago, I just opened my eyes. I’m a medical marvel, apparently.’ He smiled, proudly.

  So was I, Jess thought. Briefly at least. Then she was struck by something else. ‘A few hours ago?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  A few hours. It had been a few hours since she’d stood in her garden and watched the shell melt away.

  ‘Hey, do you live here? In town, I mean,’ asked Davey.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We moved here. Like, a week before my accident.’

  ‘That’s bad luck.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Can’t make new friends when you’re asleep, can you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll meet people.’

  ‘At school, I suppose. Maybe we go to the same one?’

  ‘No. I don’t . . . I get taught at home.’ Again, she felt a stab. She could have gone to school, but now she never would.

  ‘At home? That’s cool.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Course it is. Gives you, what do you call it? Mystery.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Course it does. Makes you different. Who wants to be like everybody else, eh?’

  Jess glowed.

  ‘Did you finish the space story, by the way? Sounded like a good one.’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Well, whenever it’s ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Davey grinned at her. ‘And what about the other one?’

  ‘What other one?’

  ‘The other one you told me.’

  Jess shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean. There was just “The Unfortunate Tailor”.’

  ‘No, you know – the really mad one. I mean, this one’s mad but that one was totally crazy.’

  Jess felt her head start to swim. ‘What was it about?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t remember it all. Like I say, it was all pretty strange. But it was about some kind of garden.’

  Her cure might have gone, but it left a trace. She wasn’t able to go out in the sun but, if the clouds hung thick and low and she lathered herself in the strongest sun cream, she could walk uncovered to the shop at the end of the road and back. Some part of the garden’s power had stayed with her, she supposed, and she was grateful.

  The next Sunday Jess and her mother made roast lamb with Yorkshire puddings. Afterwards they shared the washing-up and drying.

  ‘It wasn’t because of you,’ Jess offered, at last.

  Her mother stopped, a serving bowl held out in front of her. She lowered it slowly on to the sideboard. And then, in a gesture that was completely unlike her, she knelt down.

  ‘It wasn’t because of you,’ Jess said again.

  ‘Will you tell me where you went?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘One day.’

  ‘Will you at least promise me you’ll never do that again?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Never ever?’

  ‘Never ever.’ Jess nodded and for the first time in days a smile broke across her mother’s face.

  ‘I’ve missed you, little one,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  That evening Jess went to write in her room, as she had countless times before. The late summer sun was shut out by her thick curtains. She sat down and selected a pen – purple ink this time.

  ‘The Ice Boy’, she wrote, but before she could go any further there came shouting from the street outside. She pulled the curtain aside – the sun was low, and lengthening shadows protected her from its light. A group of children were making their way down the centre of the road. The sandy-haired girl wasn’t one of them, but she may as well have been, Jess thought. They’re all a bit the same, and I’m a bit different. I’m different, but that’s good. That’s me.

  Their chatter bubbled and popped, and for a second she felt as hollow as she ever had. But when one of them looked up and caught her eye, she didn’t shrink back. Instead she smiled. The girl smiled back, and went on her way.

  His friend had gone and the ice boy was alone, she wrote, settling back to work. Alone, just as he’d always been, but different too. He made a new bridge back to his home in the ice garden, which was easy because the world now bent and flexed at his touch. He closed up the crack in the wall and thought about what he might do.

  She tapped the base of her pen against the desk to get the ink, and her mind, flowing.

  He had lived in the garden his whole life, too scared to go further. It was beautiful there. There were millions of flowers. There was fruit to eat. But now he’d had a taste of what lay beyond, he couldn’t contain his curiosity. So he went back out into the world. He climbed to the top of the highest peak so he could look at the land from above. He followed the birds to their nesting places amongst the crags. Their eggs were spheres of ice, perfectly clear. He could see the fledglings inside, growing, changing, waiting to join their mothers.

  He walked through the forest and slept amongst the vines. They drew him high into the canopy, where he could leap from branch to branch, far above the ground. There were animals there. There was life all around him and he learnt how to understand it. He saw so much. Ice-wolves running in packs across the tundra. Caves full of bats, millions of them, pouring out into the sky in a twisting silver column. Great beasts who carried their young in their mouths . . .

  She went on, imagining the life her friend might now lead. He was out there, she knew. Just beyond her reach, but safe, and that thought made her glad.

  When she looked up again, the colour was washing from the sky. There was a knock on the door downstairs.

  ‘Jess, can you get that?’ her mother called.

  ‘I’m in my room!’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘I’m not even Half Hat.’

  ‘Then put it on!’

  Jess sighed and trudged down, unfolding her sleeves and pulling the mask on. As she opened the door the setting sun made it impossible to see for a moment. But then she saw there was a boy standing on her doorstep.

  ‘Davey!’ she cried, and leapt forward, wrapping her arms around him before she even knew what she was doing.

  ‘Thought I’d come and say hello. You’ve been so good visiting me all week, I reckoned it was my turn.’ His voice was like a brass bell, booming out through the quiet of the street.

  ‘They let you out!’

  ‘They say I’ll be fine as long as I don’t get run over again.’

  ‘Well, make sure you don’t, then.’

  ‘Try my best.’

  ‘Do you want to come in? I was just writing a new story.’

  ‘Actually, I thought you could come out.’

  ‘Out? Me?’

  ‘It’s a nice evening and I’ve been lying around for ages, right?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, and tapped her hood. ‘I told you. I can’t go out without this.’

  ‘So just keep it on, then. No big deal, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘There’s a playground down the other end of town. Got a massive slide in it. You can watch me go down head first and be impressed.’

  ‘I can go head first too, thank you very much.’

  ‘That’s fine, as long as you’re still impressed when I do it.’

  The smile died on her lips. There was no way her mother would let her. She turned around, and there she was, leaning on the kitchen doorframe. Her face was tight and tense, but to Jess’s surprise she nodded.

  ‘Just for a little while, and then maybe Davey would like to stay for dinner?’

  ‘I think my mum’s cooking me tea, but I’ll eat twice, no problem. Got to get my strength back, don’t I? Just don’t tell her.’

  ‘Go on then, Jess. But be careful.’

  The two of them stepped outsid
e, one as thin as a rake in shorts and T-shirt, the other bundled up like a beekeeper. Clouds were like charcoal smudges in the darkening sky.

  ‘I bet you I could win a race,’ he said.

  ‘I bet you couldn’t.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘All right, where’s the finish line?’

  ‘Right there at the end of the road. You’ve got no chance, though. I was hundred metres champion at my last school. Apart from the four guys who came ahead of me, that is.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  ‘So it’s a bet then?’ Davey held out his hand to seal the bet, and when she took it there was a slight jolt of cold, like the echo of something past. For a moment she felt light-headed. There were connections there, just out of reach. And, she decided, that was all right.

  ‘Go!’ shouted Davey, and Jess sprinted after him.

  The world rushed by, and she was part of it.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the many people who supported me in the writing of this book. My thanks firstly to Peter Buckman for his wise counsel in all matters. Secondly to the wonderful Kesia Lupo for her unflagging belief in the story and tireless efforts to make it better. To Barry Cunningham and Rachel Leyshon for their instincts, guidance, and for making this a reality. To Helen Crawford-White and Rachel Hickman for such a beautiful cover design. And of course to the rest of the team at Chicken House – Jazz, Elinor, Esther, Laura, Claire and Sarah.

  Thanks too, go to Laura and Jamie Doward for the crucial role they played in this book seeing the light of day. To my parents and sister for their support and belief over the years. To the incredibly talented Ed Curtis, without whom I would never have become a writer. And lastly, a huge thank you to my wonderful wife, Sheba, for well . . . everything really.

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  THE WHITE TOWER by CATHRYN CONSTABLE

  Livy’s best friend has died. Lost in grief, she wonders if she’ll ever feel normal again.

  She starts at a new school, Temple College. By day, she struggles to fit in – and by night, she’s inexplicably drawn to the roof of the ancient White Tower. Climbing fearlessly among the turrets and stone angels, she has the strangest sensation – of weightlessness, of blood burning in her veins. Up here, somehow, it’s as if she might fly.

  But others are watching Livy among the Sentinels – others to whom the secret of flight is one they’ll do anything to discover.

  A delicious mix of contemporary school life, ancient mystery and dreamy magical realism.

  FIONA NOBLE, THE BOOKSELLER

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-909489-10-3, £6.99 •  ebook, ISBN 978-1-910002-08-7, £6.99

  Text © Guy Jones 2018

  First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2018

  This electronic edition published in 2018

  Chicken House

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  Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS

  United Kingdom

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  Guy Jones has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

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  Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover and interior design by Helen Crawford-White

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

  PB ISBN 978-1-911490-04-3

  eISBN 978-1-911490-06-7